


mentha × piperita

by Siria



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve found Natasha in the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mentha × piperita

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheafrotherdon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/gifts).



> Thanks to dogeared for betaing!

Steve found Natasha in the kitchen. Her arms were folded and she was glaring fixedly at the kettle while she waited for it to boil. None of this was exactly unusual for Natasha. She often had tea after her morning workout, or when SHIELD had sent her a batch of files to read over. The look on her face was one Steve had often seen her use to intimidate people in a way that Steve wholly respected. (He'd once seen her take out an AIM agent with nothing more than an arched eyebrow and her _pinky finger_ ; even Coulson had looked mildly impressed at that, and Thor had applauded.) But even though Natasha was dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, even though this was all as close as possible to what passed for routine around here, Steve was pretty sure that something was wrong. 

"Morning," he said, popping some bread into the toaster oven. "You okay?"

Natasha nodded at him sharply, giving him one of those little half smiles she favoured, before turning her full attention back to the tea kettle. Her eyes narrowed; it looked as if she were willing it to boil faster. 

Steve peered at her. She was paler than normal, her lips pressed tightly together, and there were faint lines of pain around her mouth. "You look like hell," he said. "Pardon my French."

Natasha rolled her eyes, but still didn't speak, just tapped her throat with a quick, impatient gesture.

"You're sick?" Steve asked. He couldn't recall ever seeing Natasha under the weather before—in fact, he'd seen her sit impassively and refuse pain medication when a SHIELD medic reset a dislocated shoulder.

Natasha arched an eyebrow at him as the kettle bubbled to a boil behind her. She turned to make the tea, but Steve intercepted her. This got him a fierce glare, but Steve supposed it was testament to how bad she must be feeling that it was just a glare—he'd been a witness to the argument that happened the first and last time Tony had tried to argue that tea was for suckers who couldn't handle an espresso. 

"Come on," he said, setting the kettle back on the counter and nodding in the direction of the door. "I'll do that. You go back to bed."

Natasha stood and looked steadily at him for a long moment before turning on her heel and walking out. Going to the left would have taken her to the elevator and down to her floor, but she turned right instead. For a moment, Steve thought she was ignoring him, or worse, that he'd offended her in some way—Peggy had never liked it if some guy had treated her as if she couldn't take care of herself, and he had the feeling that Natasha was cut from the same cloth—but when he peered out into the living room, it was to see Natasha curling up on one of the large, plush sofas and tugging a throw up around her. 

Steve nodded to himself and turned back to the task of brewing some peppermint tea, talking softly with JARVIS while he set a teapot to warming and hunted out a tray. The ritual of it was soothing, reminding him of brewing tea and buttering bread for his mother on those evenings when she came home from work even more tired than usual. While he worked, JARVIS updated him on the latest news headlines, the weather forecast, the others' whereabouts, the fallout from Miss Potts declaring that she refused to countenance the idea of a red and gold themed wedding and Tony's subsequent sulk.

"Big dust-up, huh?" Steve said. He'd exited the dinner table pretty quickly last night, once Tony started talking about his plans for having an Iron Man ice sculpture preside over the wedding party's table at the reception. 

"I believe Mr Barton described it as 'epic'," JARVIS said wryly. "Might I suggest, sir, elevating the humidity levels in the living area? It should make Ms Romanov more comfortable. There are also some soothing throat lozenges and some ibuprofen in the cupboard next to the refrigerator."

"Thanks, buddy," Steve said, arranging everything on the tray. When he was a kid, he'd spent a lot of time reading cheap comics and imagining what the twenty-first century would look like, all robots and rocket ships, but none of his wildest imaginings had ever involved an intangible robot butler telling him where to find painkillers in the shiny, chrome kitchen of his skyscraper home.

He walked into the living room to find Natasha curled up on her side, eyes closed. She looked miserable, a deep furrow etched between her eyebrows and the blanket tugged right up to her chin. Steve supposed he got it, though maybe not from the same angle—he'd grown up being constantly frustrated with his body and all the ways it failed him, always trying to run after Bucky and never quite being able to keep up. Natasha's made it to now only because she'd had to rely on her body to function well at all times. A sore throat was no fun, but neither was the reminder that mind over matter didn't always work. 

Steve set the tray down gently on the coffee table and crouched to pour a cup of tea. The smell of peppermint was sharp and bright, and Steve savoured it as he added some honey to it. "Hey," he said. "Natasha? C'mon, sit up and drink this for me."

She cracked open one eye and shot him a baleful look. A man who hadn't fallen for Peggy Carter might have flinched.

"Yeah," Steve said. "I know. But if you drink this and take some Ibuprofen, I'll raid Tony's liquor cabinet and doctor the next one for you, okay?"

Natasha grinned suddenly, her expression fierce and sharp even though her curls lay limp and sweat-damp against her temples. She eased herself up on the couch, drinking down the cup of tea he gave her and swallowed the pills without demur. 

Steve fetched his now-cold toast and then poured Natasha another cup of tea. She curled up against the arm of the sofa while Steve ate. It was just the two of them, quiet by necessity and by choice, while the rain kept on beating against the windowpanes; it was just the two of them, and the trust that Steve knew had to exist for Natasha to let him see that she was hurting and not to run away. And he was glad.


End file.
